


Steal This Moment

by factorielle



Category: Ookiku Furikabutte
Genre: Bathroom Sex, M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-08
Updated: 2008-01-08
Packaged: 2017-10-09 12:06:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/87136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/factorielle/pseuds/factorielle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bathroom encounters with the Nishiura boys are becoming something of a habit for Haruna.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Steal This Moment

This isn't a good idea.

Twenty meters away, every high school baseball club in Saitama is getting fired up for the upcoming lottery. Whispering among themselves, pointing at last year's winners and journalists covering the events, most of whom are newly interested in him and haven't forgotten about you either. He is what you were last year, the rising star everyone goes out of their way to see, on the not-so-off chance that they'll get to watch a TV screen in five years and say "I saw him play in high school."

It really isn't a good idea.

People will be looking for both of you. His team must be wondering where he disappeared to. Yours as well, but they at least will be warded off by Akimaru, who is undoubtedly rehearsing his lecture on Public Decency, Our Responsibility as Seniors, and Appropriate to make out in a bathroom with the star hitter of a rival school (Why it Never Is) in retaliation for covering up for you.

He shouldn't bother: you're almost word perfect on it and it doesn't change anything. None of the reasons why you shouldn't be doing this ever holds up against the assault launched on your senses by the boy who has you pushed up against a wall right now, a knee wedged between your legs and something that may or may not be his phone pressed high against your thigh.

Then again, you never put up much resistance against him. Not since you first had him grinning at you from behind his bat right before the pitch that would make the game for either your team or his. Or maybe since he bounced by your locker room fifteen minutes later asking for your phone number; or since the occasional email turned into regular one-on-one at-bats turned into arcades and ramen joints turned into a heart-thumping kiss and now your team somehow thinks that you're mooning over a girl in the cheering team, while his siblings have convinced themselves that they're keeping his parents from finding out about his liaison with a woman who is older, more experienced, and possibly married.

They're all wrong, on more than the obvious. You've had crushes before and certainly so has he (you don't like to think about that), but when it comes to doing anything about it you've been learning it all from each other. The pressure of lips and placement of hands and quickening of breath, silent gasps and skin on skin and his tongue now tracing signs over a patch of oversensitized skin on your throat, making your hands clench in his shirt and your hips push against his.

When you're not touching, you watch. His hands trace your muscles when he pushes your shirt up and feel the subtle increases in strength; you survey how easily he sees you when you come up on him from behind in a crowded place. Everything is taken note of for the next time you see each other on the field. You're still on opposing teams and there will always be a contest between you.

For today, he's winning: just with his thumb drawing minute circles on your hip bone and his lips on your neck he's got you almost willing to beg.

It's probably going to come to that, because you're hovering right on the edge but there's only five to ten minutes left before the drawing starts and so far he seems perfectly comfortable turning your legs to jelly and not following up on it. Which is totally unfair because you won't be seeing much of one another until summer ends except at opposite ends of a bat, and it's all going to be be fine because it's for training and strategy and baseball, but right now, fuck, right now you really want him to be jerking you off.

You're about to give in and tell him so when his pants start vibrating.

It really was his phone then.

That would be a disappointment, but its strategic position makes him give a strangled moan; and then, where anyone else would have pulled back or at least sent the call to voicemail, he lets it ring right there between your bodies and bites down on your neck where he's been licking the nerves raw and you barely have time to throw an arm in front of your face before you come.

Then he pulls away, and when you look back at him he's flipping his phone open and wearing the same grin that first pulled you to him, exhilarated but focused. You've noticed, lately, that it always looks a little better when the focus is on you.

"Ah, Hanai? No, I've just been catching up with-- Yeah, I'll be back before it starts. Four minutes. Yep. Yep. Third row on the left, got it." He looks at you throughout the whole conversation, and the phone isn't even shut that you're already kissing him.

But you both have to get back to the amphitheatre, and you have to make yourself presentable first and four minutes aren't enough (no amount of time is ever enough) for what you want to do to him. "Got to go," he murmurs against your mouth. "You should take care of that." Cheeky brat.

Still, you know what he'll be thinking about when he jerks off tonight. With any luck, you'll even be back home in time to call him for it.


End file.
